Flawed Page 6

  “Why do you feel you have to go to therapy?” I ask curiously. We never talk about her emotional state. She fidgets with the sleeves of her sweatshirt. “If it’s to get rid of his shit, I suggest we burn it. I’ll charge you less than what you’re paying.”

  She laughs, looking down at her ex’s large garment. I could offer to shoot him, too. The fucking asshole hurt my sister so bad, she was a ghost for a couple of years.

  “Have you heard from him?”

  Hazel shakes her head.

  “It’s been two years since you broke up, maybe it’s time to move on.”

  “The divorce has been finalized,” she mumbles.

  My heart breaks when I see a tear rolling down her cheek. A part of me hates Elliot McFee. I wish the end had been different. Hazel and I grew up with him and his family. I witnessed their relationship, envied every moment they shared. For years, I wished to find someone who’d make me as happy as he made Hazel.

  “Are we allowed to say his name?”

  Pressing her lips together, she shakes her head. “Not yet.” She wipes the tears off her face. “It’s a long process. We made a lot of bad decisions. I focused my entire life on him. Our parents’ absence was a big factor.”

  “What do you mean?” I try to breathe. Hazel and I have an agreement. We don’t discuss them.

  “I filled their absence with his company. The pain of their neglectful behavior with the dream of having a family like his.”

  “Like the stupid dream of having half a dozen children?” I arch an eyebrow, crossing my arms. Elliot has three sisters and a brother. “That’s fucking insane.”

  She nods. “Insane, but doable. That’s something I might try to have some day.”

  “Children?”

  “Why not?” She shrugs as I give her a you don’t learn, do you look. “That’s what I mean. Our parents are good people, they just had no clue on how to raise us. I’m working on redirecting the way I think and to validate myself and my emotions. We were too small and didn’t know how to react to their behavior.”

  “Be free little birdy,” I say, hooking my thumbs and pretending my fingers are a pair of wings flying around. She nods.

  That might be true. Laila and Grant Beesley had a unique way to raise us. It began with the philosophy, “You’re on your own. Learn from experience.” For a small child, not having boundaries is scary. I wanted them to cuddle me, hug me, and kiss my scrapes. Instead, I stood up and kept on going. That’s the only way I learned to stand up for myself. Hazel had Elliot, his family, and me. I tried my best to kiss her boo-boos. Maybe that’s why she’s the normal one.

  “I’m thankful for you, for everything you did to protect me from their . . .” She taps her head twice with her fingers. “Craziness?”

  Staring at her feet, she speaks. “I make good money. I can pay for the therapist.” Her big puppy eyes open wide as she lifts her chin.

  What did she just say? Her words let a flame loose inside my mind. Inside my head, I yell at her, Like hell will I let you take care of me. I take care of myself. If I’m here, it’s because no one wants me. The only help I need is to get a real job and out of your life.

  Detaching from myself, I point at the door. “Would you mind leaving me alone?”

  That’s much better than the words I want to blurt. You fucking bitch. You’ll never understand me. You’re no different than the rest of them.

  Suddenly, I’m on the edge of a cliff, not understanding how I arrived there and looking into the abyss ready to jump. Touching my throat, I loosen up the tightness in my chest that prevents me from breathing. Hazel wants me to be perfect. I’m an old dog she wants to housebreak so our grandfather can accept me. I’m raging in anger, but the fear to express myself, because she might kick me out of her life, keeps me quiet. This is too much for me. I want to run inside the walk-in closet, and lock it tight. The intensity of my emotions, the rapid change from fear to sadness, and then anger, is killing me.

  Searching for the box of bathroom items, I realize it’s a fucking mess. One thing my sister and I have in common is we can’t be around messes. They create chaos inside our heads. If my grandfather would allow it, I’d ask for his housekeepers’ help. A stupid thought, I’m sure he hates me. I instead look for my purse. I’ll walk to the pharmacy for razor blades. Then a public bathroom where I can release the turmoil created by Hazel. I stop as I find her light-brown eyes observing me, fearful.

  I hate you, I think. If it weren’t for her, the pain inside me would be gone. Over. I’d be free from everything and everyone.

  She gives me a pity smile. Maybe it’s sad. “I love you, Wills.” Using the sleeve of her hoodie, she wipes my face. How did I not realize I’m crying? Wailing like an unattended baby, I curl into a ball on the bed. Useless, at the mercy of the pain that won’t leave me, I heave. My sister hugs me tightly, though, I still feel alone.

  “Everything will get better, you’ll see.” Her reassurance is futile, but those words loosen up my tight chest. If only they could take some of the pain away from me. My soul hurts as much as my heart.

  Seven

  In case of doubt, eat pie

  Cut the pie into four pieces, the fewer pieces, the easier it is to eat. ~ Charlotte Everhart.

  Planning for an entire day of fun was easy. It included going to watch a play. The logistics were easy to handle, too, except I was unable to reach my date. Willow didn’t answer her phone. Hazel called around five, telling me it wasn’t a good day to visit. Her clipped response after I asked what happened worried me.

  “It’s a family thing.”

  Calling their grandfather got me an alarming answer. “Willow and Hazel have been in her room all day. I believe that girl has the same mental issues as her mother.”

  “Who, Hazel?”

  “No, Willow. I recommend you stop coming around.”

  I have no clue what he meant. Clearly, Grant Beesley isn’t the person to contact when I am trying to woo Willow. Fuck, his recommendation made my gut churn. He’s not a professional who can just diagnose a mental illness. That call explained why Willow crumbled by the mere thought of having to move into his house. Asshole. The complex of the knight rescuing the damsel kicked in, and here I am, bearing presents for her. My Saturday plans have included chasing mango mousse pie and the perfect bouquet of flowers. Tyler has once more saved my ass and came through with a combination of sunset colors.

  As I made phone calls, asking for pie, I came to the realization that finding the perfect pie is more fulfilling than flying her to an island for a fun weekend. Next I have to convince Hazel to let me get through the door. She stares at the peach-color box before she turns to the arrangement of flowers.

  “Can you be gentle?” she whispers, pain etched in the corner of her eyes. “I screwed up big time.”

  “What did you do?”

  She rubs the back of her neck, chewing her lip. “It’s complicated to explain. Distract her, redirect her mind to something fun.” Opening the door wider, she steps out and kisses my cheek. “I trust you, Hunt. Let’s hope she does, too.”

  Smart woman, she is aware her trust won’t help in the matter. I need Willow to open up to me.

  “Hey, gorgeous. I heard you needed some flowers.” The boxes are gone, and some of the pillows I brought last night decorate her bed. She’s in the corner, pinning pictures on a corkboard. As I approach, I notice it’s almost full. It has magazine cutouts, quotes, landscapes, and portraits of Hazel and her. “Can I interest you in a piece of pie?”

  Turning around, I get knocked in the gut by the sadness she carries inside her eyes. “What kind of pie?” A ghostly smile takes over her beautiful rosy lips.

  “Mango mousse.” I hand over the flowers.

  She touches the orange-pink roses and smells the lavender. “Is this part of the ‘rescue the damsel package?”

  “Do you need saving?” She shakes her head. “Good, that package includes dragons, unicorns, and a fleet of doves.”
>
  “Doves?” she chuckles twisting her lips to the side. “Why on earth would you need such for a rescue?”

  I roll my eyes, pretending to be annoyed with her lack of knowledge in the procedure. “After the salvaging of thy fair maiden, the knight marries the demoiselle, and doves are released as she says, ‘I do.’”

  She squints, laughing at my ridiculous explanation. Hunter one, sadness zero. Pulling out the plastic forks from inside my jacket, I give her one.

  “Forks?”

  “How else are we supposed to eat the pie?”

  Caressing the petals of the pale pink flowers, she shoots me a you should know better look. “We need plates, a knife. You have to cut it in pieces, it’s easier to eat.”

  Shaking my head, I take the flowers from her, placing them on top of the nightstand. I take a seat on the floor, pat the space beside me, and open the box.

  “How many pieces of pie can you eat at a time?”

  With a frown, she sits where I indicated. Staring at the pie, she swipes the whipped cream peak with her fork. Thrusting it into her mouth, she moans as she sucks on it. I clear my throat, ordering my dick to behave. My brain, though, imagines her lips around my cock while sucking me hard. Her long fingers cupping my balls. My hips thrusting hard as I push all the way down her throat.

  “One.” She licks her lips.

  I clear my throat, staring at her mouth. Finding my voice. This “no sex until I get to know her” method is going to kill me from blue balls disease. Grinding my teeth, I compose myself, recalling what I wanted to say about the pie. Pie. Mango mousse pie we should eat together to explain my point. Mom, bless her heart, used too many treats to explain the meaning of life and how things can work better. Like with pie.

  “This is one piece of pie.” I found the words, begging for my blood to move from my dick and flow normally. Sinking the plastic ware into the pie, I take a spoonful and feed it to her. Then, do the same but feeding myself, eating the rich, creamy custard filling. “Mom used to say life can’t be cut into multiple pieces. That you have to learn how to eat it all, and most of the time, it’s easier if you let others help you.”

  Imitating what I did, she feeds me pie and then eats some herself. We don’t speak until we are half way through. Patting my stomach, I set my fork inside the box. “Though, you also don’t have to eat all of the pie in one sitting.”

  “Sounds like your mom was brilliant. You must miss her,” she states the obvious. “Mine is strange. I used to imagine my parents had died. It was easier to pretend than knowing they didn’t care about us.”

  Taking the fork away from her, I place my arm around her back, giving a chaste peck to her warm lips. “Give me a little of that sadness. I think sharing will make you feel better.”

  “I wish it was that easy.”

  Make her forget for at least a little while. What if I give her an eternal succession of moments distracting her from the burden she carries? “Dancing, you love dancing. How about I take you out tonight?”

  “Rain check?” I fake disappointment. For the first time, she kisses me without me initiating it. It’s sweet, fast but fulfilling. “Can we go to your room and watch musicals again?”

  She touches the box with her knee. “We can continue eating life together. I just don’t think I can handle other people.”

  “I think your plan is better than mine.”

  With my help, she prepares an overnight bag. We are going to jog in Central Park in the morning. Then, have breakfast at my place. Lunch in Brooklyn, and dinner at her grandfather’s because she promised Hazel. In between, we will become tourists in our own backyard. I’ve asked Scott to lend me his camera. This is going to be us trying to beat the sadness away and bring some sunshine into her life.

  How am I handling someone else’s emotional baggage when I can barely carry mine? The answer is simple . . . I have no fucking idea. It has nothing to do with her tight ass, my reaction to her throaty voice, or the fact that I want to taste her. I’ll address that when the time is right. Mark my words, it’ll happen sooner rather than later. The lesson about patience and how to make the best rice pudding is a tale for another day. For now, I’m about to face one big monster. My mother’s collection of DVDs. She loved musicals and has many I know Willow will love. I haven’t been inside her craft room since she died.

  “Do you want me to go with you?” Willow holds my hand.

  “Where?”

  She rubs my arm gently. “You said your mom has a few of those movies in her room.” Pointing at the door, she continues, “I take it it’s hard for you to go inside. You’ve been standing in front of this room for about ten minutes without blinking.”

  I hold my breath, not knowing what to say to her.

  “I think this is like pie,” Willow says. “Trust me.”

  We both hold the handle, pushing the door open and enter the room I’ve avoided for years. As I feared, her scent is gone. Nothing has been moved. The same piece of clothing she was using for my Halloween costume is still next to her sewing machine. I was going to be Harry Potter that year. Her bookshelves are to the left. Books and movies are organized in alphabetical order. Everything is clean. I think Jensen continues sending the cleaning crew to keep the place tidy.

  “She painted?” Willow marches to the easel where the half-finished portrait of my father is set. “He’s handsome.”

  “Harrison looks a lot like him.” I stare at Dad’s eyes. Blue like the sea, darker than Harrison’s, more like mine.

  “Whenever you’re ready, I’d love to know more about them.” She turns around and hugs me, resting her head on my chest and easing the heaviness when I realized what I’ve just done.

  “Everything you remember. It’ll be like meeting them through your memories. Like eating pie, creating those kaleidoscopes I saw on the working table. How often did she paint?”

  “My parents loved each other so much.” I set my gaze on the picture hanging on the wall. It’s the six of us during our last Christmas together. It’s not the typical family photo where the boys wear suits, and the parents look like sophisticated aristocrats. No, we were on the terrace of our apartment in Monaco, wearing our most comfortable clothes, laughing at one of my father’s silly jokes. That’s how Mom wanted us. The best part of us. “They’d love you.”

  “I hope they would.” Her words are unexpected, welcomed.

  I’ve never told her how I feel as if they watch my brothers and me. How I imagine them laughing at our stupidity or worrying about Harrison when he’s working. They would be proud of Scott because he continues Dad’s legacy, and happy that Fitz found himself after so many years of partying. Maybe they would be relieved I am trying my best to swim against the current and my shitty emotions. Having her in my arms feels great. My heart fills fuller. I’m not sure if it is that I defeated another monster or that she’s with me. Seems that the two blind people are helping each other feel the sunset.

  Eight

  Searching for perfect

  I’d rather have authentic than perfect. ~ Harrison Everhart.

  “Would you like to share with the rest of us?” Fitz grumbles looking around the table.

  I roll my eyes, setting my phone down, and composing myself. Lifting my gaze, I find my three brothers staring back at me.

  “What happened to laid back meetings?” I protest, not wanting to discuss why I chuckled. Neither one of them would understand. Willow sent me a picture of a cloud, and the caption read “Guess what I see.”

  Glancing at her incoming text, I laugh again. It’s an eye roll emoji. She didn’t like my response, “those nipples remind me of your pretty tits.”

  Yesterday, as we strolled around Central Park, she concluded that I’m a pervert. Every cloud has a hidden nipple. I showed it to her. She insisted I was wrong. Willow and Hazel used to find animals while cloud watching. Technically, I’m tarnishing her childhood memories with tits. It is now her mission to take pictures and trace the animals for me. Toda
y, she’s sent three dogs, two bunnies, and a dick. I swear it’s a dick wrapped between two voluptuous breasts with pearly tips I wanted to suck, not the Washington Monument.

  “I’m only here for a couple of days,” Harrison reminds me, nodding at our brothers.

  Like a cheap party trick, the simple movement makes Fitz and Scott disappear from the conference room. He has that kind of power over us. It’s that badass special operations agent status, or whatever the title he uses for the private security company he works for, combined with the resemblance to our father.

  Sitting up straight, I place both hands on top of the table, linking them as I speak. “This isn’t a company emergency, is it?”

  The corner of his mouth pulls up, his eyes brighten. “Kid, you and I go way back. Why haven’t I heard about this new girl?” He pulls out his phone. “In fact, I got a message from Assie, talking about the joyous news.”

  “Henrietta, her name is Henrietta. I called her H.” Checking his phone, I see a long dreading text.

  Assie: Harrison, can you help me? Your brother and I haven’t broken up yet, and he’s already dating a new woman. He isn’t answering my phone calls. I went to his office, and the front desk said I am not allowed back inside.

  Henrietta and I have broken up. It was a few months ago—or was it weeks? Fuck if I remember or care. It feels like ages since I’ve had to deal with her. The last time she contacted me was the night when Willow and I met. The next morning, I left her a voicemail terminating our relationship once and for all. Unfortunately, she doesn’t seem to understand the concept of over.

  “Why does she have your social phone number?” Harrison has four different cell phone numbers. One is for family, his boss, and coworkers. The second is only for work. The third is for business, and the fourth is for socializing. That’s code for the phone his fuck bunnies use.